


Twelve months later

by JamesJohnEye



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, mention character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 13:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17204342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesJohnEye/pseuds/JamesJohnEye
Summary: ‘No. You died. I buried you.’‘Daryl, you’re freaking me out. What are you-‘





	Twelve months later

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun is only just setting when Paul parks his car and hops out. He’s pleased to see that Daryl’s truck is in their drive-way, which means he’s already back from watching the game at Rick’s place. They’ve both had a busy week. He can’t wait to grab a beer and just hang out on the couch with his boyfriend. When he opens the trunk, and takes his gym bag out, he sees his front door open out of the corner of his eye.

Daryl walks out onto the porch with his phone in his hand, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. He lights it and starts typing out a message.

Paul thinks about calling him to mess with him but then just locks his car and walks up to the house. It surprises him that Daryl doesn’t notice his car locking; the blinking lights normally cause him to look up when he’s expecting him home. He whistles sharply to get his attention instead.

Daryl looks up.

‘Hey!’ Paul jumps over their low fence. ‘How was the game? Did we win?’

The cigarette falls from Daryl’s limp fingers. His face grows ashen as his eyes widen, mouth almost falling open. He stares at his boyfriend, moves his jaw like he wants to say something but stays silent. He looks terrified.

Paul frowns. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You died.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You died,’ Daryl says.

‘Oh, _haha_.’ Paul rolls his eyes. ‘Are you still mad about that little dent I made in your car door yesterday? Maybe don’t park it _on top_ of a street pole next time, and leave some room so I can actually get out too. I didn’t see it, man. I told you I was sorry!’ He hoists his bag higher onto his shoulder, ‘you’re not going to let me in? Is that it? That’s the game we’re playing now?’

‘No. You _died_. I buried you.’

‘Daryl, you’re freaking me out. What are you-‘

‘You were walking to your car and someone stabbed you in the parking lot,’ Daryl says, his voice devoid of any emotion. ‘No reason. Just… They just did it. Someone passing by tried to help, but you died. And I buried you.’ Daryl’s fingers twitch against his leg. ‘You have a grave.’

‘Obviously I don’t need it yet,’ Paul says in a weak attempt at humor. He looks down at himself and then back up at his boyfriend. ‘If this is some sick joke-‘

‘ _Sick joke_?’ Daryl growls as he steps forward. There’s hurt flashing behind the small eyes, anger making his expression dark. ‘You’re standing here while I… What the fuck, Paul,’ he breathes. ‘What happened? Where have you… I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I,’ Paul says softly and he can feel panic starting to rise in himself. This isn’t a joke. He can tell by the way Daryl’s looking at him, by the way he looks different than he’d done yesterday. Hair longer, wilder. Skinnier than before but almost clean-shaven, like he’s trying to keep up appearances but failing. ‘I don’t remember anything about… I _died_?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe someone made a mistake – misidentification or-‘

‘You’ve been gone for almost a year, Paul!’

‘No, I – we went to see Carl’s school play yesterday. He was so embarrassed we’d all shown up.‘

‘That was a year ago.’

Paul opens and closes his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s still holding his bag with gym clothes. He’d worked out before his shift at the bar today. ‘My car was still there.’

Daryl looks down the street and frowns when he sees the familiar vehicle. ‘Some guy down in Florida is missing their goddamn ride.’

‘ _Florida_?’

‘Didn’t wanna see it anywhere near here.’

Paul cocks his head to the side, ‘but Florida? You shipped my poor baby to _Florida_?’

‘Your poor baby is a piece of shit, I was lucky to get ten bucks for it. I’ve been tellin’ you.’

Paul smiles and is glad that the corner of Daryl’s mouth moves up too. He looks at their house, which doesn’t look any different. Their curtains drawn, the light on inside the living room and kitchen. Flowerbeds still look the same. In the dark, he can’t tell whether Daryl managed to maintain the garden on his own. It had been a lost cause with even the two of them, so they’d both settled on liking the wild look their garden had, to the horror of their elderly neighbor.

‘Can I come in?’

Daryl suddenly seems to realize that they’re still standing on the porch. He scratches the back of his neck and moves aside. ‘Yeah…’

The house feels different. Paul puts his bag near the bottom of the staircase like usual and walks into the living room. Everything is the same, but none of it feels right. Same couch and lazy chair, same overflowing bookcase. Daryl’s crossbows mounted on the wall. The coffee table is new but from the same place they bought the old one, Paul recognizes the style.

New pictures frames have been added to the shelves. A little boy showing off his missing tooth. Dark hair and bright eyes.

‘Hershel,’ Paul says softly because he’s never seen the boy that old before.

‘He wouldn’t stop cryin’ at your funeral. Maggie had to take him outside,’ Daryl says as he sits down on the armrest of the couch.

Paul bites on his lower lip and looks at the other pictures. Old favorites. Daryl and Merle when they were little, bare-chested in the Georgia sun while leaning against each other. A candid shot of Rick and Michonne on their wedding day. Ezekiel holding Shiva’s chain at the zoo, laughing at a terrified-looking Carl. Daryl sitting on the edge of Maggie’s hospital bed and holding Hershel with a look of absolute awe of his face. Judith showing off her new backpack on her first day of school. Kal and Eduardo drinking from the same vodka bottle on opening night, one of them flipping the camera off. A group of kids proudly showing their yellow belts.

‘You took mine down.’

‘Yeah.’

Paul looks around the room. His books are still there, but the coasters with colorful, rude texts on them are gone. The wine rack is missing. The little key-box Daryl had made him because he was always leaving his keys everywhere. His headphones aren’t in their usual spot. There’s no blanket draped over the other arm of the couch.

‘I’ve put it all in storage. Couldn’t bear lookin’ at it. Rick helped.’ Daryl chews on his fingernail. ‘People told me to throw it out, ya know? Couldn’t do that neither.’

‘I like the new coffee table.’

‘Broke the old one. Got drunk and trashed it for no reason.’

It feels so much like a confession that it breaks Paul’s heart. He reaches out with his hand, slowly, to try and touch Daryl’s cheek.

He flinches away.

‘Sorry,’ Paul says.

‘Don’t touch me.’

Paul nods.

Daryl pushes himself away from the couch with a grunt. He heads to the kitchen and grabs two beers, opening them with his lighter. He puts one on the kitchen table and leans against the wall while scratching at the label of his.

‘How was my funeral?’

Daryl looks up. There are tears in his eyes. He shrugs. ‘Did my best.’

‘I’m sure you did, I didn’t-‘

‘Didn’t know what music you’d want, so had to ask Kal. Didn’t know what flower you’d like neither, what kind of coffin, what –‘ Daryl shrugs and wipes angrily at a tear that rolls down his cheek. ‘Never felt so fucking stupid, how could I not know that? Who knows shit like that?’

‘Whatever you did, is fine.’

Daryl scowls at his boots. They’re new, Paul notes numbly as he grabs the beer from the kitchen table. He sits down on top of it. It’s how he would always sit while Daryl made dinner, perched on top of the table behind his boyfriend, telling him about his training session, or listening to Daryl’s stories from work.

Paul traces the rim of the bottle with his thumb. ‘Do you think we need to call someone?’

‘Hey, 911? My dead boyfriend is back,’ Daryl snorts but there’s no humor in his voice. ‘No fucking way. They’ll lock me up.’

‘But I’m here, so you wouldn’t be _wrong_.’

‘ _You can’t be_!’ Daryl suddenly snarls, throwing the bottle towards their sink. Beer splashes all over the counter, the glass shatters. His voice trembles due to anger and sadness. ‘This doesn’t happen. This ain’t right, ‘cause you’re gonna be gone in a second, _again_ , and I…’ he moves his jaw, stumbles over tears and waves his hand vaguely, not knowing how or what to say. ‘I can’t do it again,’ he says. ‘Just can’t, man.’

‘I’m here,’ Paul promises because he never left. To him, it’s a year ago and he left around lunchtime to go to the gym and have a short evening shift. ‘Daryl…’

‘Don’t say my name.’

Paul closes his eyes.

‘Took out a fucking loan for your goddamn tombstone, you know that? Got balls of steel, earning that nickname once I’d paid all that money. You couldn’t do the actual three days thing? Tardy on your own resurrection, man?’

Paul opens his eyes. He knows what Daryl’s apologies sound like and smiles. ‘We can put it in storage for next time.’

‘Better be after my death,’ Daryl warns. He heads towards the hallway and locks the front door. ‘Done told ya; ain’t doing this again, man. It’s late. We’ll figure it out in the morning.’

‘Really, that’s your plan; sleep on it?’

‘My dead boyfriend turns up on my porch after a year,’ Daryl says as he turns around on the first step of the stairs to look at him. ‘What the fuck do you want me to do? Tomorrow I’m gonna wake up and be the luckiest son of a bitch alive, or the same goddamn mess I were yesterday. I’m gonna throw that dice and get some sleep.’

Paul scratches at the label of his beer bottle. ‘You were a mess?’

Daryl snorts. ‘You know how fucking sad your life is when Carol’s casseroles are the only thing that keeps you going?’

‘There wasn’t anyone else? After me?’

Daryl looks like someone slapped him, hard. ‘What the-‘

‘I wouldn’t blame you!’ Paul says hurriedly. ‘I’d be glad if you were happy, I’m just-‘

‘Fuck off!’

Paul watches how his boyfriend storms off. He sighs softly and drinks his beer, putting it in the recycle bin afterwards. On his way up, he grabs his gym bag out of habit. He loads the washing machine and turns it on before walking to the bedroom.

Nothing has changed here. Their pictures still on the nightstands. Him sitting on the back of Daryl’s old truck, a beer in his hand and pointing at something off-camera, laughing as the sun sets behind him. On his own nightstand is a picture of Daryl taking a break on their new porch on their first day of fixing up this house, sweaty, a water bottle in one hand, the other bringing a cigarette to his mouth, glaring at the camera.

Daryl’s on the balcony. He’s still using the ashtray Carl made him in primary school. It’s next to him on the balustrade.

Paul leans against the doorpost.

‘Tried twice. Got drunk the first time and fucking cried until he fled. Couldn’t get it up the second time.’

‘You never had that problem with me,’ Paul says as he wriggles his eyebrows.

Daryl doesn’t laugh. He looks at him. ‘I’ve missed you so goddamn much. You can’t even imagine. No,’ he says when Paul opens his mouth, ‘you _can’t_.’ He takes a drag from his cigarette. ‘Wouldn’t want you to, neither. ‘s a nasty place to be in.’

‘You got out.’

‘There’s no getting out. After a month, people go back to their own lives, stop lookin’ at you like you’re gonna break, right? Two months later, you’re doing alright, you still can’t sleep for shit and there’s post falling on your doormat addressed to a dead man, so that’s a great way to start the day, right? Three months later, people really want to believe you’re fine so you just get better at acting like it. Still picked up goddamn soy milk for no reason though. Four months later and you’re back at square one, hiding under your covers from Rick who’s pounding at the door because they haven’t heard from you in two weeks. Broke our goddamn door.’

‘Did you make him pay for it?’

Daryl snorts. ‘Does crying on his shoulder for an hour count?’

‘Only if it helped.’

‘Nah. Nothing helped, man. I mean…’ Daryl shrugs. ‘I’m sure it’ll get better, it just never goes away, is what I mean.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Paul whispers.

‘I’m sick of people tellin’ me that.’ He ends his cigarette in the ashtray and hops off the balcony. He waits until Paul steps back to head into the bedroom, so there’s no chance of their arms brushing. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Paul nods. ‘Do you want me to take the couch?’

Daryl hesitates on the threshold of the bathroom. ‘No.’

‘Okay then.’

They brush their teeth side by side. Daryl looks at him via the mirror. He doesn’t smile when Paul jokes why he couldn’t have been sentimentally attached to his toothbrush. He hates breaking in a new one.

When he slides into bed, Daryl holds his breath. Paul wants to lean over and kiss him goodnight like he’s always done but doesn’t. Daryl’s so stiff next to him, he can almost hear his heart racing.

‘Goodnight, Daryl,’ he says softly before turning to his side and closing his eyes.

After five minutes, Daryl scoots closer.

After ten, Paul feels a tentative hand touch his side. Just fingertips brushing, like he’s afraid Paul might dissolve or not be real at all. The hand moves to his stomach and up to his chest. It comes to rest over his beating heart.

 

 


End file.
